


Drifting Glaciers

by Sunpops1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1960s, Cold War, Dr. Strange's Ambiguous Shenanigans, Hydra (Marvel), Hypothermia, Inaccurate boats, Not Beta Read, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SHIELD, The Tesseract (Marvel), Time Travel, probably inaccurate lots of things, the Howling Commandos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:42:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunpops1/pseuds/Sunpops1
Summary: Remembering almost makes it worse than waking up in the unknown. He knows now where the image came from, Mr. Stark’s face looking down into his own. The horrible moment where all he could see was the sun beating down into the red, dusty air before darkness came. Before waking up in the snow. That moment where he felt his grip not slip, but simply cease to wrap around the man’s shoulder.Regret fills his heart. He should’ve said something else, anything else. Now Mr. Stark would be left with one final, haunting impression of him, and believe he’d failed.But when he was dying, the very essence of his soul deconstructing, his legs fading beneath him, there wasn't much time to consider the words slipping out. Peter had thought about dying before. He’d always thought he’d die with a witty remark. Not that. Not an apology.Actually, remembering definitely makes this worse. It would’ve been nicer to stumble around, next to Howard Stark and Dum Dum Dugan from the Howling Commandos, and still be able to believe it was all some prolonged fever dream. Peter shakes the cuffs encircling his wrists and sighs. They’re not worth breaking free from while he’s still on the boat. It isn’t like he has anywhere to go.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	1. First Awakening

Peter wakes up.

Maybe he should’ve been more surprised to find himself gasping awake and upright, eyes slamming open from a darkness without context, or meaning, to a new, unknown slate of world. But when Peter opened his eyes, he didn’t feel surprise, rather just quiet, tired shock that dissipated quickly as it clashed with his sudden, all-encompassing desire to move. 

He was cold, and he had the notion, based on the numbness seeping up from his fingers and toes to the rest of his body, that he has been cold for a while.

It was a snowy, storming and grey day, wherever the hell he was. It was flurrying, hard. Harder and heavier than it usually did in New York. Peter had seen snow, of course, even particularly bad storms… but never like this. Even the time he'd been stuck in a subway station as a blizzard raged outside, he’d had cover. That night, he’d cuddled up with his parka, his uncle, and his aunt on a bench and they’d joked, later, that May’s coffee, the littlest semblance of warmth, had saved their life and they should've given the barista a better tip. Here he has just been let loose in an empty, snow-scaped wilderness. 

Peter can’t see much, his bare feet are just barely visible past his snow-dusted, wet jeans that are starting to freeze into place. He’s wearing a cotton t-shirt, too. It is just a plain, blue shirt that he doesn’t recognize, and it's just as damp from the weather. The material clings to his body as he moves. Peter looks behind him, but there is not much there, either, just his outline dug in the thick, white blanket of snow. 

“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” Peter jokes, and cracks a weak smile. He takes one more good look around, stands up, with a disoriented wobble, and asks himself “Does it snow in Kansas?” The wind knocks him around like a flag and, with nothing to protect himself, the weather cut through his skin and leaves him feeling like he's got freezer burn.

When he stands he feels his feet sink down into the snow with a crunch, and finally processes his shivering. He is shaking, and it is worsening with each gust of wind- it is a terrible shiver, one visibly evident as a constant, painful buzz that rippless up through his chest and has his teeth chattering in his mouth like those of a skeleton. He stuffs his numb red fingers up into his armpits, and wiggles his toes, trying to keep himself warm.

He stumbles forward, or, at least, stumbles in some unknown direction and tries to think of how he’d gotten here. When he grasped for memories, though, he came up with nothing. The memories felt formed. Sure scenes of the past few weeks were there, but unable to be unlocked, seen, and understood. When he tries to think of just before this moment, it makes him slightly nauseous and leaves his mind whirling. Like a dream, he had the knowledge of these events but they’d drifted out of reach.

He walked for a long time. He started counting seconds, but gave up. He was not able to think. Not able to talk. Just walking in an endless, unchanging, unremarkable blizzard, and feeling every bit of the weather. His eyes started to droop. 

What had it been? Two minutes? Three hours? He didn’t know, but he was exhausted. 

Maybe this was how Mr. Stark had felt, after escaping the Ten Rings- just blisteringly hot, in the desert, instead of cold. Ragged, aimless, and dazed. It was a story Peter had romanticized as a kid and never lost his love for. The long, harsh journey towards salvation. Peter, a sad, newly orphaned five year old, saw Tony Stark on the news, after weeks of being missing, with a Burger King bag in his tanned, too skinny hand, and thought that he too could get through whatever life was throwing at him. Maybe as a five year old he didn’t exactly know why those images stuck with him, not in so many words, but the idea had stuck, regardless, with Peter and resurfaced with each new fact he learned about the man. 

When Mr. Stark’s assertion of “ _I am Iron Man_ ” hit the news it became Peter’s mantra. Peter would mumble it to himself, watching TV, doing homework, sitting in his classroom, or even just staring down a poor, defenseless cereal bowl. _I am Iron Man. I am Iron Man_. 

He thinks of it now- _I am Iron Man_ \- and is spurred forward. There is a memory, too, nagging at the back of his head and keeping him moving. What was that memory? Peter tries hard to conjure it and only gets so far as the image of Mr. Stark’s face, his eyes wide, and his face twisted in anguish before he’s interrupted.

There’s a noise. Faint, but certain, and the only thing he’d heard so far besides wind, and his own footsteps or chattering teeth. Peter couldn’t place it at first but when it sounded again, it was slightly louder and almost decipherable as... a horn? Peter moves towards it, listening intently. There was another blast of it, closer and now clearly a horn. Then, underneath that sound slowly, but surely, came more- the thrum of an engine. Slow churning water. Something cracking. The creak of metal like door hinges.

Peter rushes towards the probably-boat. _Try_ being the operative word. His legs feel rusty and move as such, in stilted, uneven movements. One step too short, another too long. “Hello?” Peter yells. His voice comes out hoarse so he clears his throat and tries again “Hello?”

Nothing answers. Peter can see something, now, a large, dark shadow on the horizon. When he calls out a third time, there’s a response. A bewildered, male voice asking “Did you hear that?” The voice is tinged with an accent Peter knows well, a slight Brooklyn twinge.

Someone responds, another man, but this one speaks in a careful, measured British accent. Peter didn’t know exactly what kind of accent, but he knew it was posh. “I believe I did, sir.”

“Yes, you did!” Peter yells “You definitely heard that!”

Peter hears the Brooklyn accent issue a command to stop, and the sound of the engine simmers to a low steady rumble. There’s more voices then, all men, speaking amongst themselves, a few worried, but most just complain about a door being open to let the cold in. Peter hears one ask “ _Jesus, doesn’t that sound like a kid?_ ”

As the voices rise, the metal creaks again, accompanied by the sound of thick boots echoing on what Peter presumes is the metal deck of the ship. A gruff voice calls out, “Who are you?” it asks, in stern, threatening tone. Peter hears a click, and recognizes it the sound a gun being cocked. He recognizes that, perhaps, this was not his best idea but walking away and dying in the cold would objectively be worse. “State your purpose.”

“Uh,” Peter feels dumb, even as he says it, “my name is Peter. I’m lost.”

“You’re lost?” the gruff voice asks, its disbelief evident.

“Yes. Uh, it’s really cold out here. I don’t have a jacket.” 

Someone laughs. “Ah,” It’s Brooklyn, in an amused tone “Jim, settle down. You look like a turkey putting up its feathers. Honestly, it’s far too strange to be some ruse.”

The gruff voice, Jim, apparently, doesn’t settle, or believe Brooklyn. He huffs and calls out “show yourself.”

“I’m trying, I swear!”

As Peter nears the boat, the outline of it becomes definite. It’s pretty big- nothing like a cruise ship, or a military vessel, but enough to comfortably house probably twenty men. The boat is painted a dark, navy blue, and the bow stretches out long in front of it.

Peter watches as a man, Jim, apparently, the one with the heavy boots, approaches and stops just behind the life rafts and the fence that lines the edge of the boat. Peter can’t see his face, but he can see the gun cradled in Jim’s hands and aimed downwards toward his head.

Peter waves.

“Oh my God,” he hears Jim say, and this time the man’s threatening tone is dropped, though not the suspicion, in place of panic. 

Two more men come up next to Jim. One is taller than the others, and has his hands behind his back. But it’s the third one that speaks, Brooklyn, coming up to the rails and leaning over the edge like an eager kid. “That” Brooklyn says, pointing to Peter, his tone still amused, “is a kid.”

“Oh dear,” says the tall man, British.“I will go and let him in. ” 

“What are you doin’ out here, Peter?” Brooklyn asks. “In the middle of the arctic?”

Peter blanches. “The- The arctic?” He asks. 

“Don’t act dumb.” Jim looks angry, “This isn’t a place you get to on accident. We’re going to let you on, and we will get you warmed up, but don’t get the impression that you’re welcome here.” Jim then turns to Brooklyn and whispers (but Peter can still pick it up with his enhanced hearing) “you will want to get back, sir, he could be dangerous.”

British disappears from view, but not before Jim gives him a firm _get protection_ first. Peter is as close as he can get now, before the snow turns to ice close to the boat. His shivering has gotten even worse and the numbness continues rising through his legs and arms. 

Brooklyn has not heeded his friend’s warning and has, instead, put his elbows down on the railing and propped his chin up in his hands. “Jim, you worry too much. Even if Peter here is some soviet spy- he’s an absolutely terrible one.”

Soviet spy?

Jim audibly sighs, exasperated. “Sir.”

“Come on Peter, spill.” Brooklyn says, playfully “What’s your story?”

Peter squints up at them. “Um. I’m not sure? But I’m not a spy, or anything, I promise. I’m from Queens.”

Brooklyn laughs again. “Queens? Really?”

Peter is about to answer when he hears a clank to his left as a square section of boat, a door, Peter supposes, falls open. A chain lowers the door, slowly, until it hits the ground. On the top of the door is a set of stairs now leading into the open boat where British, now obviously a tall, blonde man, in a homely wool turtleneck and scarf, stands. British is flanked by two men in uniforms Peter doesn’t recognize. They are both holding guns and, weirdly, Peter does recognize those. But… he didn’t like the implications of them. Not only were the guns Stark models- which hadn’t been sold in years after Afghanistan- they were very, very old Stark models. 

“Get on quickly. The storm is quite horrendous, I’d rather not keep the door open.”

Peter nods and makes his way up the stairs as quickly as he can, eager for the warmth that the closed space provided. After settling, the two soldiers come forward and one holds their gun towards him as the other starts to check him for weapons. He tries to make a joke, but the man cuts it off with a look and an aggressive pat to his back pants pockets. When it's over, one brings out a pair of thick, metal cuffs and Peter hesitates but offer his hands, anyways. 

Peter warily moves further onto the boat, and watches with a mix of dread and relief, as British hits a button, and the chains holding the door open start pulling again. The chains groan with effort until the last bit of white, the view of the outside world growing smaller and smaller, disappears behind the metal door. 

He's left in a metal hallway, one that quickly turns away out of his view.

Peter sighs and wiggles his hands in the cuffs. “I will get you something warm. Do you like coffee?” British asks.

“I’d take it. Thank you,” Peter says, hoping he sounds genuine, he’s never really been a coffee person- but right now coffee feels like it would do him some good. “I feel better already.”

British smiles, but the expression is tinged with a certain amount of concern as the man gets a good, long look at Peter, shaking where he stands. “I imagine.”

“What? Is there something wrong with my clothes?” Peter jokes, shaky hands motioning towards his t-shirt, and to the stiff, icy jeans. British gives him a soft, amused smile, but the man’s reply is covered by the sound of laughter as Brooklyn speeds around the corner, coming up beside British and throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder.

And Peter...

Well Peter realizes a few things, looking at Brooklyn’s face.

Brooklyn- Howard Stark- settles against British, one hand slung over British’s shoulder, and the other making wild, excited gestures in the air, like a kid who's just been given a new toy. "This is great!” Howard exclaims, “Some skinny kid from Queens stumbles out from the mist of the Arctic… wearing jeans...” Howard scoffs. 

A moment passes, Peter realizes he’s staring. Howard levels his gaze onto Peter, a sharp, keen eye. “Kid.” Howard says, “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Peter doesn’t feel okay. Peter, actually, feels awful, and it must be showing on his face. Up until this moment, his panic has been mostly staunched by the cold, but he can feel it rise up in his chest like a hairball. Howard Stark was standing there. Right there. Peter knows it’s Howard Stark, too, he’d spent too much time watching documentaries, and pouring hours of research into the biological and medical sects of Stark Industries, to doubt his knowledge of the man’s face. A styled slick of dark hair, a rectangular jaw that led into high, angular cheekbones, and a well-groomed mustache. 

“Cold.” Peter is at a loss for words.

Howard shakes his head. His expression is that of someone watching their favorite movie. “Yeah that makes sense. Jarvis, get our guest some fresh clothes and a blanket., will you?”

“Of course.” British- Jarvis- says, sparing one look at Peter, one of a mellow, and worried curiosity, and heading off down the hall.

“I’m not supposed to get too close to you, given that you could be some damned commie spy,” Howard tells Peter, and gets closer anyways, “But what the hell, am I right? I’ve been so damn bored- and you. You. Are. Interesting.” As Howard says this, he jabs his finger into Peter’s chest with each word. Howard gives the boy a thorough onceover, studying the boy by grappling at his shirt, pulling the collar out and peering down it, grabbing his jaw and twisting it around, and getting so bold as to take two fingers and start to pry open Peter's eyelid.

Peter sputters and steps back. He is about to ask, “What are you doing?” but he’s beaten to the punch when Jim asks it for him. Jim, who joins them in quick, heavy strides. Jim, apparently, is an Asian man, Japanese, maybe, with a long, serious face, and black hair grown out to his shoulders. He wears the same uniform as the two quiet men that are still standing nearby, combat boots and thick, black tactical gear.

Jim is quick to separate Howard from Peter, the former of which pouts as he’s pushed away .“Look at him, Jim! He is not a threat!” Howard gestures towards Peter, all of him, “That kid couldn’t hurt a damn fly, he’s soaking wet and probably doesn’t weigh 90 pounds, what could he do? Tell me I’m a _schmuck_ and kick my shin? He doesn’t even have shoes on.”

Jim ignores Howard, and, instead, turns towards the embarrassed Peter, who feels slightly indignant at the fact he didn’t even register as a possible threat. He wasn’t a threat because he was friendly, not because he was short. “Who are you?” Jim barks, getting in Peter’s face “what are you doing here?”

Peter puts his hands up in front of him. “I told you already. I’m lost-”

Jim twists a hand in Peter’s shirt and yanks him forward. Seriously, could they stop doing that? “Alright, kid, I don’t know who set some fourteen year old out to do their bidding-”

Peter sputters. “Hold on! I swear I’m telling the truth. My name is Peter, I just woke up out there and I don’t know how I got here. Please.” Peter. Oh God, Peter does not want to get in SHIELD’s custody one bit. He sounds a little pathetic maybe, but he’s not above begging for the man to get the point.

“You expect me to believe that?” Jim asks, giving Peter a shake.

Peter sighs, “I don’t know.” He really is being honest, “but It’s the truth.”

Jim gives him a long look. There’s something in his eyes that seems like pity. He shakes his head. “I don’t know who sent out there like this- but I will find them. And if you try anything funny- I mean anything- you’re not gonna like the consequences.”

Even Howard’s face turns serious after Jim says that. The air is tense, and Peter feels a certain amount of humor. A dissociative panic- not like the walls are caving in, but more like they’re floating away. He’s left with the feeling that this is all some absurd and uncontrollable nightmare and he will wake up from it soon. He’s left wondering when that festering nausea will finally, actually surface. Maybe he just has nothing inside of him to let out. Maybe this is all fake.

Peter gulps. “Okay. But I’m not working for anyone and I- I promise, no funny business.” he nervously tacks the last part on when Jim looks just about ready to toss him back outside.

Howard gives Jim a pat on the back, but he’s turned towards Peter.“Don’t worry, Peter. We’ll put an extra blanket on your prison cot.” He laughs.

Jarvis returns, then, with another man following behind him. This one is in the uniform, but his outer layer of a windbreaker and a thick down jacket has been unzipped, and he walks with an ease that the other men don’t carry. Jarvis is carrying a styrofoam cup, and Peter sees the string of a tea bag hanging on the side. The other man has clothes shoved under his arm. 

“We have an extra, proper bed we can put in there, sir.” Jarvis says, before handing Peter the mug- Peter hisses under his breath when his fingers touch the too hot mug and he quickly moves to hold the handle. “It’s not very hot, my apologies, but I don’t yet trust you with anything boiling.” Jarvis tells him, and hands the cup of coffee off to Jim who shoves it into Peter's hand “You didn’t seem too keen on coffee, so I figured tea would do.”

The steam wafts up into his face, and Peter smiles. The smell, soft and floral, reminds him of his aunt. Then, Peter frowns. His aunt. Peter has no idea where she is, or if anything had happened to her. What did it mean for her that he was here? She must miss him. 

“Thank you.” Peter tells him. “It smells like Jasmine?”

“Yes. You have a keen nose.” Jarvis remarks. “Make sure you drink it slowly.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The man who has just walked in with Jarvis is a loud man, but Peter can tell it’s not purposeful. “It really is a kid! How old are you?”

“Um,” Peter looks around at all the people surrounding him, even the two silent men, with their guns still out, seem interested now. Both of their faces are hidden behind masks, but he can see their eyes trained on him, and leaning forward. “fifteen.”

Jarvis makes a thoughtful sound. Jim huffs. The new man and Howard both let out their own version of a squawk. “Fifteen!” He yelps. “You serious?” The man shakes his head, then hands off the pile of clothes to Peter. “You’re fucking tiny. You’re gonna drown in these.”

Peter takes the clothes with his free hand, awkwardly with the cuffs on his wrist, but keeps them held at a slight distance away from his wet ones he currently has on. “It’s better than drowning in these.” Peter says, “Can I please change, now?”

Jim nods, and commands Peter with a curt “Follow me.”

Peter does, and so do the other men, except for Jarvis who gives Peter a polite goodbye with the promise to bring him more tea, as well as a nice warm meal, later. The two stern faced guards stay the closest, one bracing behind him so Peter can feel the muzzle of the gun brush up against his back and them move away just enough that Peter can still feel it hovering. The other comes to his left.

Jim walks fast and Peter’s stride is still awkward from the cold and staying in the wet clothes hasn’t helped. “My name is Timothy,” the new, loud man introduces himself, saddling up on Peter's right, “But people call me Dum Dum, or Dugan, or whatever, you’re Peter, right?”

Jim looks back, sees Peter struggling to keep up, and slows his pace. Peter is grateful for it. “Dum Dum?" Peter asks, and gets a nod in response. "Weren’t you…” Peter pauses. “Weren’t you in the Howling Commandos?”

Dugan hums. "Yeah, actually."

The halls of the ship are a shiny, grey steel illuminated in a harsh fluorescent light. There are no windows out, But there are a few doors, settled into the wall. One of the ones they pass has a small bit of glass on the front of it, and Peter gets just the smallest glimpse into what looks like a laboratory- a mess of pipes, wires, and a bright, blue glow, before he feels Jim glaring at him and he stops. 

“It’s not suspicious-” Peter blurts, “that I know. I promise. I just- I really like Captain America.”

Jim abruptly stops in front of him, in front of a door with an arrow painted on it, pointing up, “So did we.” Jim says, spite lacing his words. 

Dugan kicks Jim in the back of his calf. Jim whips around, and Peter blinks a little bit in shock as Jim retaliates by punching Dugan hard in the shoulder. Dugan starts laughing, and Jim rolls his eyes. “Don’t rag on him too much, Jim.” Dugan says, and then tells Peter "I bet you do.” Dugan and Howard both snicker like there’s a joke Peter doesn’t get. Well, Peter supposes, maybe he shouldn’t get it. He doesn’t know if the comics had been written yet (the ones he’d thrown himself into collecting when he was eight, but didn’t get very far without money) or if it was common knowledge who Captain America really was- if the super soldier serum was something people knew about. But he thinks he understands what Dugan is referencing. It’s hard not to see the surface similarities, maybe, between Peter and Steve Rogers- both just skinny, sickly looking teenagers from New York. Peter wonders if Captain American was why they were out here. He knew, from Mr. Stark, that Howard Stark had led several long, unsuccessful expeditions into the arctic searching for the remains of the Valkyrie.

Jim opens the door. It’s one of those large, metal wheels that he has to turn all the way around. Jim turns it with both hands until there’s a click, and he pushes the door inwards to reveal a set of stairs. 

Peter notes, as they go through the door that he has stopped shivering. 

“So how’d you end up here, Peter?” Dugan asks.

“Well, get this,” Howard tells him, “says he doesn’t know.”

The stairs extend in both directions, and, like everything else, metal. Their footsteps echo against the stairs as they walk up, and Peter feels crowded in, the friendly Howard and Dugan falling somewhere behind his armed escort, he feels the full weight of Jim’s backward gaze bearing down on him like a gavel, and the crowd of men behind him all clanging up the stairway creates a sickening cacophony of noise. “I’m serious.” Peter tries to defend himself. His fingers tense around the clothes in his hand. He thinks hard, but his brain gives him nothing, still, there’s just a void and the more he tries to think about it- the more it hurts. 

Jim opens the door at the top of the stairs, and proceeds through, turning, and folding his hands behind his back to wait for Peter to catch up. Howard and Dugan are talking to each other, and Peter knows they keep trying to get a reply out of him, and though he tries to listen, the sound of their voices just bounces around the metal stairway and off his head. He takes a deep breath. He can feel his own heartbeat, and he doesn’t know what to make of it- thumping in his ears.

The room the stairwell opens up into is almost… regal. Peter’s bare feet step onto fuzzy red carpet and finds himself washed in a nicer, less harsh light. It’s a dim, golden lighting that illuminates what looks like a longue, with darkly painted walls, long, velvet green couches popping up from the red, and comfortable looking armchairs surrounding a card table. Most eye-catching, though, is where the carpet turns into dark wood, and the chairs turn into stools lining a long counter. In the back of the room there is the biggest liquor shelf Peter has ever seen- not that he’s seen very many, but it’s massive, and way, way too extravagant. Peter feels like he can’t really appreciate it- all the bright, colored glass hurts his eyes, and even the dim lights of the room feel like too much. “Alright, alright, I know it’s impressive but keep moving, get off my carpet.” Howard says, pushing Peter forward, who had apparently stopped walking without meaning to, “No feet, and no vomiting. This stuff was expensive.”

“You shouldn’t have put it on a boat, then.” Jim says, serious, and walking again. The two soldiers close up around Peter, blocking his view when he looks the opposite direction for a moment. 

“It’s my damn boat I can-” Peter drowns the sound out on purpose this time. His brain feels busy enough without having to think Yeah, I know where Mr. Stark got it from. His walking doesn’t feel like it’s improving, the numbness persists and the boat isn’t as warm as it needs to be, and, even without the physical ailments his coordination feels off. It’s weird, he feels warmer.

He can still feel his heartbeat, and it seems to be getting stronger. Heavy thumps that encapsulate his chest, and pump slowly and thoroughly up to his ears. He can even feel it in his eyes.

The sensation hits him like a bullet, if a dull one, it encapsulates his whole head in a sharp-nailed vice grip, like something had gotten inside his brain and started kicking it with cleats. The pain fades quickly, but for a moment it is big, raw and sudden, and then it leaves him with a deep exhaustion.

Peter’s vision goes white and he reels backwards, one foot crashing into another, like he had been avoiding for so long, and tumbling to the floor. 

The tea spills out below him, hot as it soaks into the carpet. He can hear himself groan, but it doesn’t sound like him. Howard is going on now about a stain and Peter feels a pang of guilt for spilling the tea, not only because Jarvis’ kindness had been wasted, but Howard was just talking about how expensive the carpet was.

There is little space for more thoughts, just feelings. Guilt, of course, and shame, humiliation for the way he must look right now, actively curling into a painful fetal position. But the persisting emotion seems to be a straightforward terror clutching at his chest. 

There were levels of things to process, and Peter didn’t have the capacity for it. If this was real, he had more things to worry about than a sad May, he had to worry about a non-existent May. He would have to worry about absolute desertion of everything he has called home, his family, his friends, his life. He was just some super-powered kid on a lone, SHIELD vessel drifting somewhere in time. Stranded in a frozen, inescapable tundra.

If SHIELD got their hands on him, Peter didn’t know what he could do, it wasn’t like he could just run away. If HYDRA got their hands on him…

No. He would wake up, he told himself. The morning would begin as it always had. Pop tarts, May’s kiss, or a note left behind when she went for an extra early or late shift at the hospital. He couldn’t remember anything before he woke up here, because nothing had happened. He’d returned home and collapsed in his bed exhausted after a night of patrolling. A common, inconspicuous night.

Peter couldn’t hear anything, but he felt hands on him, pulling at his arms to try and get him standing, effectively wrenching his body forward, just peeling his back off the carpet, and then dropping him back down when he remained unresponsive. 

Peter felt his head bounce against the carpet. More importantly, Peter felt his head bounce against the hard floor underneath the carpet. 

His head bounced, a dull thud as his skull bounded back, his brain rattled, and his heartbeat pounded like a door knocker- 

Then there was nothing.


	2. Second Awakening

_“Mr. Parker.”_

_Peter looked up from where he sat on some rubble- some remnant of the past civilization on this planet, once grandiose, and now dust-coated. He had been talking to the alien girl, Mantis, when Dr. Strange spoke. When he looked towards Dr. Strange, Peter could see, further behind, Mr. Stark turned the other direction and hunched over something._

_Peter frowned. He’d never seen Mr. Stark look so small before. Mr. Stark was objectively short compared to his peers, Peter knew that (Although everyone was short compared to most of the Avengers- that’s what happened with super-soldiers and gods and supermodels like Natasha Romanov), but Peter hadn’t ever considered him that way. He, at least, always had to look up when talking to the man._

_Everything happening was so… Strange. Heh._

_He looked back to Dr. Strange. “Um, yeah? What’s up?”_

_“I need to talk to you.” Dr. Strange narrowed his eyes at Mantis. “Alone.”_

_“Oh!” She giggled._

_She shut her eyes tightly and traced her finger over her lips like she was zipping them. A couple of moments passed and she stayed put. Peter stifled a laugh and gently motioned for Dr. Strange to be quiet when he started to grow impatient._

_“Mantis,” Peter said softly, trying not to let the amusement seep into his voice when her eyes popped open and she tilted her head to the side like a dog, “I think Dr. Strange means that you need to leave. Maybe you should go check on Mr. Stark or Mr. Starlord or something, I think other people need some cheering up, too.”_

_Mantis blinked owlishly before smacking herself upside the head so hard Peter could hear it. She flinched, but quickly wiped the pained expression off her face. “Silly me!” she squealed. She bounded out of her seat, and, as Peter suggested, skipped over to Mr. Stark._

_Dr. Strange made a thoughtful expression. “You’re a very kind person, Peter.”_

_Peter finally let himself chuckle, watching Mantis bound clumsily over towards his mentor. Laughing had felt better than the melancholy that had settled over the lot of them since Thanos had disappeared, and Starlord collapsed into a pathetic pile. “I try. Love yourself, love your neighbor, and all of that. What do you need to talk to me about?”_

_Dr. Strange sighed and looked at Peter apologetically, “I want you to know, first, how sorry I am.”_

_“Uh. You didn’t do anything?" Peter tried._

_Dr. Strange shook his head gently, “Peter I can not tell you everything, truthfully I do not… I do not know everything. There are many forces beyond my sight and my power,” Strange said, in his mystical wizard fashion. “But you should know that you are meant for something far beyond this time and this place.”_

_There was something weird about the way Dr. Strange looked at him, deathly serious, that made Peter’s skin crawl. “Dude,” Peter said. “I get that it might be your schtick but uh… you’re kinda creeping me out a little. You think you can dial the whole confusing Dumbledore thing down a notch or two?”_

_Well actually, if Strange was Dumbledore, did that make him Harry Potter in this situation? That was kind of cool._

_Dr. Strange sighed, moving his hand to the inside of his mystical wizard robes and producing from them a neatly folded envelope, complete with what looked like a custom wax seal on the front. “This will be yours._

_Peter hesitated but moved to grab it anyway. “I-- I was kidding about the whole Harry Potter thing, you know. I didn’t think I was getting an invite to Hogwarts. I mean I’m honored, of course, I always knew I had something special in me.”_

_Dr. Strange moved the letter away when Peter went to grab it. “Not yet.” Strange said._

_“When am I supposed to open it, then?” Peter asked._

_“You will know when. You will only find it then.” Dr. Strange said, ever ambiguous. Then he chuckled. Chuckled! No, Seriously! Peter’s mouth opened wordlessly and closed. He could’ve sworn he just saw the guy wink. The ridiculousness of it all was almost enough to make him question the veracity of his situation._

_As if the magical wizard doctor man had to make him more confused while he was stuck in the middle of space with a wounded Mr. Stark, a bunch of aliens and some guy walking around with a walkman._

_Strange whispered something undecipherable under his breath, and his eyes reflected the bright green glow that encompassed the envelope. A glow that came about and disappeared just as quickly when the letter disappeared from Strange's hand._

_Peter went to ask another question- but was interrupted when Mantis returned. She looked like someone had just squashed a nest full of baby birds in front of her, black eyes watery, her antennae drooping down by her cheeks. “He is too sad,” Mantis said, motioning back to Mr. Stark, who had turned to look at Peter. “Too sad for me to help. He feels hollow inside right now, his sadness has eaten at him like a hungry beast.”_

_Mantis took Peter’s hands within her soft ones and moved her fingers over his calluses from web-slinging. She pressed her thumb into his palm, not enough to hurt, and left it there, studying it carefully. She slid it up to his wrist and hovered over his pulse point._

_“He cares so much for you, Peter. So much it hurts him. He loves you, and I know you love him, too. So much it hurts you.” She pressed harder into the spot, sounding like she was going to cry. “I can feel it. I can feel it inside of you. You are too young to know this hurt. I am so sorry.”_

_Peter regretted making eye contact with Mr. Stark. He couldn’t handle the feeling that welled up inside of his chest at Mantis’ words and Mr. Stark’s hurt, mournful expression. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Peter said, moving their hands so their fingers intertwined, instead, uncomfortable with the way she made him hypersensitive to the rapid beat of his heart, thrumming beneath his skin. “I promise you, I’m fine.”_

_“No…” She whines. “You feel like Peter. Like Big Peter when Yondu died.”_

_“ Who? Ah- nevermind. I don’t need to know. I’m fine,” He said a little bit urgently, “Do you want to hear another joke?”_

-

When Peter wakes up, he’s warm, he can feel the weight of several soft blankets swaddled around him. He can hear Mr. Stark, but he can’t make out what he’s saying. The man’s voice is muffled- like he’s shuttered behind a few walls. There’s more voices too, all far away.

He’s uncomfortable. Whatever he is sleeping on is hard and unforgiving, and he thinks it’s his couch until he shifts on it, to find a softer spot, and hears the clanging of metal beneath him. His stomach feels knotted the same way it does when he has been on the train for too long. His eyes are heavy when he starts to open them, and his wrists, too, when he tries to dig his hands out from under all the blankets and bring them up to his face.

But the cuffs could explain that weight.

Peter shoots up. 

Remembering almost makes it worse than waking up in the unknown. He knows now, where the image came from, Mr. Stark’s face looking down into his own. The horrible moment where all he could see was the sun beating down into the red, dusty air before darkness. Before waking up in the snow. That moment where he felt his grip not slip, but simply cease to wrap around the man’s shoulder. 

Regret fills his heart. He should’ve said something else, anything else. Now Mr. Stark would be left with one final, haunting impression of him, and believe he’d failed. 

But when he was dying, the very essence of his soul deconstructing, his legs fading beneath him, there wasn't much time to consider the words coming out of his mouth. Peter had thought about dying before. He’d always thought he’d die with a witty remark. Something snarky. Not that. Not an apology. 

Actually, remembering definitely makes this worse. It would’ve been nicer to stumble around, next to Howard Stark and Dum Dum Dugan from the Howling Commandos, and still be able to believe it was all some prolonged fever dream. Peter shakes the cuffs encircling his wrists and sighs. They’re not worth breaking free from while he’s still on this boat.

It’s not like he has anywhere to go.

Peter takes a closer look at his hands and frowns. He clenches them and hisses with the feeling of pain lancing up through his fingers. They are sore, and the skin near his nails is red and slightly swolen. He can count three blisters on his fingers that look angry and inflamed. He wiggles his toes and, along with the feeling of fabric surrounding them that wasn’t there before, the motion produces the same, needling feeling traveling up his foot. 

He looks down at his clothes. He’s not sure if they’re the clothes he’d been holding while he was being marched through the halls or not, but, either way, they’re way too big. Plain grey pants, a sweater, and thick socks. 

The cot he woke up on was thin, and stuffed in the corner of a dull prison cell. There’s no window, so only dull lighting illuminates the white walls and grey floor. There’s another empty cot in front of him, a toilet in the middle of the wall across from him, a single roll of toilet paper, and a sparse looking sink. 

When he listens again to the voices eeking through the walls, he notices that the voice he’d heard earlier was only close to Tony's. But it was deeper, and slightly accented. Tony Stark wasn’t here. Howard Stark, though, is playing cards with someone. He's winning, and he’s loud about it.

“You’re awake. Mr. Stark said you would be up soon, but I will admit,” Peter gasps, and whips his head around. Jarvis sits on a fold out chair outside of the cell, behind the barred door. "I was starting to get a little worried.”

“What happened?” Peter asked, peeling the rest of the blankets away and standing. It’s easier this time, even with his sore feet, and some residual stiffness from just waking up, and his brain feels much clearer.

“I will tell you in a moment but, first, I brought you something to eat.” Jarvis says, and Peter notices he’s holding a plastic tray with a napkin spread over the top of it. Peter’s stomach grumbles loudly.

“Ah,” He says after his stomach rudely interrupts, “I guess I want some, huh?”

“It’s nothing spectacular,” Jarvis tells him, standing and moving towards the door, “But it should do you some good to eat something simple. I did not think your stomach would be eager for anything too heavy.”

Jarvis pulls out a key and unlocks something on the door that… wasn’t the door? Peter understands when Jarvis pushes up the flap of a slot, before pushing the tray through. Peter, moves forward to grab it and pull it the rest of the way through. When the slot closes, Jarvis locks it back up. 

Peter pulls the napkin away off the top of the tray, revealing a simple breakfast- toast, butter, jam, canned peaches in a bowl, a milk carton, and a glass of water. “Please tell if you’d like more.” Jarvis tells him. “I can assure you that even as a prisoner you have access to our pantry, and we have plenty of food. Stark did not skimp on the kitchen.” 

“Thank you.” Peter says, setting the tray on the floor and sitting down behind it, legs crossed over each other.

“I will bring you more tea later.” Jarvis says.

Peter thinks about the wasted tea on the carpet, and blushes. “Ah, sorry about spilling the last one.” He says. “ I’d really like that. But you don’t have to.”  
Jarvis shakes his head. “It is no trouble. I brought extra tea, and all of the men here drink coffee.”

“Why are you being so nice?” Peter asks him, warily. He picks up a dull table knife from off the tray, and goes for a pad of butter. He’s surprised by the inclusion of actual silverware. Maybe it’s a test. 

Jarvis takes a moment to think before replying, sitting back down and folding his hands in his lap. “I am not American, but if I do believe in something this country proposes, it would certainly be that people are innocent until proven guilty. Now, granted, the specific circumstances of your arrival insist that you will be treated as guilty until you prove yourself an ally.” Jarvis tells him. “I do not know your story. Nor do I know whether you can be trusted or not. but I do know that, whoever you are, you were just exposed to prolonged, unlivable conditions, and deserve to be sheltered from that. I can not currently free you from this cell, but I can treat you decently. Although, I suppose in that regard I have already let you down.”

Peter tops the buttered toast with jam, and shoves the thing in his mouth in just about two bites. He doesn’t stop to think that it might be tampered with until he’s done. At that point, though, he’s already swallowed and decides to just eat anyways. It wasn’t like poisoning him now would do SHIELD any good after they already had him locked up.

He couldn’t stop himself from moaning at the feeling of food hitting his stomach. Jarvis was right in that it wasn’t anything special but at the same time it was the simplicity of it that made it delicious and exactly what he needed at that moment. It wasn’t a pop tart, like he’d have every morning, but it was something akin to it. It was doing the job, at least, sweet, crunchy, and somewhat normal.

He was also so, so hungry.

Peter finishes chewing and, confused, asks Jarvis “What do you mean?”

“I should’ve gotten you warmer, faster.” Jarvis frowns, and in response to Peter’s expression he adds, “You do not know yet. You were hypothermic when you boarded the ship and we did not warm you up fast enough. That was why you collapsed.”

Peter pops open the milk carton. “Oh, huh. That makes sense.”

“Fortunately,” Jarvis says, “Your immune system is quite sturdy. I was told you were lucky to survive.”

“Huh,” Peter hums, and tries to move on from the topic, knowing that whatever his body did it most likely was not normal. He downs the milk down in one long chug and wipes his face with the sleeve of the sweater he’s wearing. “How long was I out?”

“Four days,” Jarvis answers.

Peter’s eyes shoot open. “ _Four days_! Are you serious?”

Jarvis nods. “I did tell you that you nearly died.”

Peter brings his hands to his face and rubs it, shaking his head in disbelief “How did you know I was going to wake up now?”

“The doctor came in to monitor you not long ago. He told me it seemed you were already semi-conscious and that you would be awake soon.” Jarvis explains. 

“Semi-conscious? Oh my God.” Peter nervously taps the surface of the tray with his fingers. Four days was a long time. Four days was enough time to do lots, and lots of things that Peter didn’t know about. He had picked up the fork to start on the bowl of peaches, but he now places it back down on the tray. He was still hungry, but he’d momentarily lost his appetite as it felt like something had gotten lodged in his throat.

Now he brings both of his hands up to his face and slides them back into his hair to pull at it. He pulls.

Peter’s breath speeds up. 

He shakes his head. No. No he could not do this right now-

Not here- not in front of this man who was nice, or whatever, but he didn’t know and- anyways- he wasn’t safe to do this here- His breath. Oh, he did not know how to breathe-

“I am sorry.” Peter hears Jarvis say and he snaps his head up. When had he started looking down at the ground? “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The pause gave Peter the time he needed to straighten his head out enough to staunch the immediate panic. He clenched his hands, the pain actually helping in grounding him. What could he see? Jarvis’ worried blue eyes. Sweater. Peaches. 

“No. I’m-” Peter pounds his fist on his chest to dislodge the feeling in his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. I am just freakin’ kosher, dude.” He picks the fork up and forcefully stabs it into a peach slice. 

The water is the last thing he has, and he drinks it in the same way he ate everything else, fast. “I may not be able to assure that you will be freed, but I can tell you that you’re safe here. We are humane. Many of us know what it is like to be in your position.”

Peter sighs. “Can I get more water, please?”

Jarvis nods, and returns to the door. “I will take your tray, as well. Are you sure you want nothing else?”

“I’m good for now.” Peter says. “I should let that digest, or, you know, whatever.” 

Jarvis makes a face. And when Peter asks him what’s wrong, Jarvis simply replies, “I don't know all of the new slang, I suppose."

After passing the tray off to Jarvis, and the man checks for all the silverware, giving Peter a kind glance when he sees the fork and knife both returned to their place on the tray. Peter watches, as far as he can, through the bars as the man walks away. Jarvis slips out of view, a door is opened, shut, and the sound of dress shoes gently hitting the ground gradually fades.

Peter walks back to the cot and picks up two of the blankets to wrap around his shoulders. Howard Stark had told the truth, at least, there were several extra blankets on his prison cot. It's cold in the cell, despite his thick clothes.

Peter goes to examine the sink and the toilet, trying to keep moving and keep his mind off his current situation. But, when he moves his leg he hears something crinkle.

Peter tries it again. He lifts his left leg up and hears the sound of paper shifting in his pocket.

Peter digs down into the deep pocket of the oversized sweatpants until he feels his hand bump into something, which is indeed paper, thin and soft. He pulls the item out, and takes it in with confusion, at first, until he remembers. It’s Dr. Strange’s letter.

As if there would be anything else in the pocket.

The fancy pressed parchment, and pretentious wax seal, it had certainly only appeared just now. There hadn’t been anything on him when he stood up to take the food from Jarvis. Wizards and their antics, Peter adored the idea of it, but in practice it was getting tiring.

The seal pops off surprisingly easy. It’s a short letter, one page.

 **Peter,**

It reads, in terrible cursive handwriting. Apparently, Doctor Strange hadn’t been lying about his degree.

**You must have many questions, and I’m sorry that I will be unable to answer them all. Telling you your future will only help to squelch it.  
What is happening is real. **

**You have found yourself in the year 1961, on a ship searching for the remains of the Valkyrie. In our universe, Thanos has won, and exterminated half of universe. You have traveled back in time, and effectively created a second universe. This new universe can be saved. And you can do it, Peter.**

Peter can feel his mind reeling. Like a fish caught on a hook and dragged through sharp reeds and litter on a lake bottom. Except that open edge of a can lid left by some fisherman was each, and every new word of the letter that came at him like a well-placed right hook.

**The universe you will depart shall continue on. Your aunt will survive, she will marry again, and she will make a happy life with this new man. Your friends are gone but they continue to live on with you in another universe. Tony Stark will have a family.**

**These people will be fine. I am telling you this to try and stop you from returning. You can not return here. Trying to do so will only get in your way.  
I have seen the future, Peter, and I will not tell you that it will be easy. If it was up to me, I never would’ve forced a child to take on the responsibilities and adversities that are to come upon you. But it is not up to me, and you will have to face the trials presented to you by your circumstances. **

**I have faith in you. I have seen you succeed.**

**The infinity stones have chosen you, Peter. They have seen you for what you are: a worthy hero. Clever, strong, and kind.**

**This is the endgame.**

Peter’s grip clenches the edge of the letter, so the paper wrinkles and the words become unreadable. He gives in, balls up the paper and throws it across the room, just to watch it bounce off the wall, settle on the floor, and disappear in a flash of light as if it had never existed. 

Now that Jarvis is gone there’s nothing stopping him from crying or derailing into the hyperventilation. 

The tears bubble up inside of him and roll out, and that’s it. This was all he had, really, tears. He couldn’t scream without attracting attention, and there was no one to talk to. All he had were his hitches of breath and the hope that crying could do something to purify him of this knowledge, that maybe he could wash this away. Blink and wake up. His shoulders heave underneath the blanket.

Oh, right, there’s still a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

His aunt liked blankets. She was particular about them, too. She had carefully collected her quilts, her afghans, and fleece. Most of them were hand-me-downs from family and friends that she’d kept nice. She had gotten her favorite, a crocheted afghan of blue and red that she’d said her mother had made. Her mother was a woman before her time, May said. That blanket would be marked for hundreds in some vintage store window, should it be sold today. 

Those blankets were taken care of the way all of them were. They kept them folded in a wicker basket, and kept them away from any staining food or drink. May would mend any imperfections carefully. 

Those blankets were the only thing they’d ever paid to get laundered. 

They never had to dry clean much else. They wore nothing that couldn’t be taken to an everyday laundromat. May wore scrubs, his uncle had worn his police uniform, and Peter’s clothes were few and cheap. Mostly, he’d worn graphic t-shirts and gym shorts. He hadn’t owned a suit until sophomore year, and even that was washer-safe. 

There was another blanket, one that Peter’s mother had apparently brought all the way from her childhood home in South Carolina to New York. They’d had more from Mary’s and Richard’s house as well: long academic studies on the bookshelf (some of which Peter had re-read), photo albums, old lab equipment, journals, vases, candles, throw pillows, and a few knick-knacks. 

He’d had a history. A home that had seen storms, but weathered through. He’d had roots, and now they were all dug up. Tossed aside. Thrown away. His family tree had been weathered and hacked at before, but now it felt like it had simply been consumed in the spark of lightning strike, or chopped down and sent off for firewood. 

Peter wondered if now was really a time for grieving. The tears streaming down his cheeks didn’t feel right. He had just gotten over the loss of Ben, stored him away as a memory and not a living man and now his last family member was gone too. The death cabinet was full. There was no more room for another dead parent, there were already three too many. And he’d lost his friends too: Ned, Michelle-

More than that. He’d lost his life. He was dead to the world as much as the world was dead to him. He was Peter Parker, still, but that had lost its meaning. He could be nameless, and he would be the same person. There was no birth certificate, or social security number, or any person who knew his story.  
He was alone.

Peter continues to cry, but by the time he finishes, it feels more like a chore than it does any meaningful use of energy. His head hurts, and his puffy eyes and stuffed nose certainly don’t feel like purification or accomplishment. There is nothing else but to cry- but it feels useless. Crying wouldn’t change the contents of the letter. Crying wouldn’t bring him from this jail cell and onto his bed, texting Ned and Michelle, eating his aunt's terrible, wonderful lasagna.

Crying was necessary, or whatever, but it had never helped him get over Ben, either. Not without May to talk him through it while using a soft hand to untangle his hair.

He barely has time to roll out a piece of toilet paper, blow his nose, and throw it in the toilet, before he hears the door down the hall open. Peter flushes and berates himself for not paying more attention. He roughly wipes at his face, and turns to face the front of the cell with his arms crossed over his chest. He already recognizes Jim’s heavy stride well. It was distinct from the others, and Peter recognized why, now, with a clear head. One of his feet hits the ground with a distinct tinny click.

Jim came silently, accompanied by one other soldier, again, with the guns, and a man in a white long-sleeved shirt with a stethoscope hanging around his neck.  
“Our doctor will look at you,” Jim informs Peter in a cold, clinical manner, motioning to stethoscope man, “and then we will take you to an interrogation room. If you try anything, I will shoot you.” 

Peter nods, hoping that his concern doesn’t show on his face. It probably does. He’s sure the red eyes are visible, too, and he’s grateful no one says anything. He has always been bad at a poker face. “Look, I get that we’re all having oodles have fun, but you don’t have to sound so excited.”

“Step back from the door.” Jim says, “Up against the back wall.”

No one laughs. No one even acknowledges the joke. Peter sighs and follows Jim’s order. Facing the concrete until he hears Jim tell him to turn around. “You know I can’t do anything, right?” Peter asks him, “someone stripped me naked, to dress me in these clothes, you already know I don’t have any weapons.”  
Yet again, there’s no reply.

The doctor is straightforward too. Taking Peter’s temperature, running him through a breathing test, and checking the movement of his joints. The man grows more and more impressed with each positive result.

After the doctor finishes, pulling out a flashlight and checking Peter’s eyes, the man’s mouth is hanging open. “You’ve made great recovery time.” He tells Peter.  
Peter laughs awkwardly, “Ah, thanks?”

“You are very lucky to be alive right now, young man.” The doctor tells him. “Your body was very, very smart, shutting down when it did.” The doctor gives him a pat on the shoulder, “Honestly I’m amazed that you don’t have any permanent damage. Well, from what I could see when you were asleep. Your body temperature dropped far lower than I’ve… ever seen.” The man, perplexed, looks at Peter for a prolonged moment before he catches himself staring, rids himself of the expression, and asks Peter “Does anything hurt?”

Peter hesitates, but admits that “My hands and feet kind of hurt, actually.”

“Ah, let me see.” The doctor says, and Peter offers his hands to the man who takes them and gives them a thorough appraisal, turning them over and lifting them in front of his face. “This is a product of the cold. Your hands will recover soon enough, usually injuries of this sort take two or so weeks to heal, but these don’t seem like they were too bad.” 

“They’re chilblains, right?” Peter asks.

The doctor gives him a surprised look. “Ah, yes, actually, that would be the technical term. Not too many people are familiar with it.”

“Oh I,” Peter notices his mistake. “I know a little medicine.”

The doctor drops Peter’s hands. “I’m done here for now. officer Morita. He seems fit to be questioned- But!” The doctor turns and starts heading towards the door. Jim nods at Peter who gets the hint and returns to the back wall while the doctor is let out. “You will keep him warm, this time. And if he exhibits any worrying symptoms of pain, or odd behavior, you must tell me. He is, right now, still my patient. Take him to me when you are done with him, and I will give him a more thorough checkup.”

“He’ll be fine.” Jim tells him. 

Once the doctor leaves and a few moments pass, Peter turns around. 

“I didn’t tell you to move.” Jim says, but tells him to come forward anyways, but warns “I will not let you do that again.” 

The hallway outside of the cell wasn’t very big. It was narrow, and only extended far enough for three small cells. Peter was in the last one. At the other end was a thick, barred door that also looked locked. These people and their security. Geez.

Peter shuffles his feet forward, “I don’t get any shoes?” he asks. Silence. “A chatty Cathy, aren’t ya?” Peter asks.

Jim, Peter decides, is a very annoying jerk.

Would it be so hard for Jim to give him something to focus on besides the crippling, awful thoughts rolling around in his head? No. It would be very easy, even, for Jim to say something about his obvious exasperation. Yelling would be better than this cold quiet. 

Peter was left in the silence, and his mind wondered. Why him? What made him so worthy? Dr. Strange’s letter had said he was clever, strong, and kind, but Peter felt wholly unprepared for something of this scale. He had already told Mr. Stark no to being an Avenger once, opting to stay small, and trying to help his own community- and now he had to save the world. The little guy had become half of the universe.

It was his destiny. 

A destiny he was meant to fulfill with actions he didn’t know he would take. Was this predetermined or was there just a particular set of choices that was correct when it came to saving the universe and all that jazz? Could he make the wrong choice?

A predetermined destiny felt wrong to Peter. 

That was one of the most upsetting parts about that letter- the one that went up in a flash of light, just like his entire existence until this one, very moment- that all of this was meant to happen. Peter was meant to be here. The idea of that felt sickening. 

Or maybe that was his sea-sick stomach starting to complain about how fast he'd eaten the food Jarvis brought him.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, making all the right predetermined choices to somehow save the world. When, should he pick something and send himself barreling down the wrong path, he would become the reason everyone would be doomed to die again. 

Yeah, not so bad. No pressure at all. There was only, simply, the weight of the world pushing down on his shoulders. 

And so Peter went, marching down the hall, and through that door, in the oppressive stillness. Outside of his line of sight, he could hear Howard Stark, winning the jack pot, again, much to the chagrin of his fellow players. There were snippets of conversation, when it got loud enough for Peter to hear, and the rumbling motors. But Jim gave him nothing, and nothing present was enough to distract him from the empty, gaping hole in his heart. 

Here he goes, stumbling, just like some stupid, all-powerful stones say he’s meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me adamantly ignoring my other fic on this website for a long long time and being sad that I'll never continue it despite having written several more chapters because I hate all the writing in them. Haha.


	3. you can't handle the truth!

The interrogation room was small. 

Maybe the rooms size was due to this being a ship. Or maybe it was just Howard Stark making too much space for the fancy parts of the ship. The strange mix of sleek steel and rich extravagance followed with what Peter understood about Howard, and it was another reminder that Mr. Stark, apparently, had taken after his father an almost eerie amount. Tony too would’ve put a massive bar wherever he wanted without thinking that they’d have to march prisoners past it to get to the cells- or that such valuables were all visible through windows from the short walk to the interrogation room. 

Jim has his long hair pulled off his shoulders into a low ponytail, and Peter can see the entirety of his face, long shadows cast downwards by the light overhead. Jim stares at him while he sets up with a large magnetic tape recorder on the table. The mic is pointed up and towards Peter’s face.

Peter twiddles his thumbs on the table, where his handcuffs have been connected to a chain. He takes a glance towards the one-way window to his left. 

The chair he’s sat in is hard, and he finds himself shifting trying to find a comfortable position. “So...” Peter says,“You come here often?”

No reply, as Jim checks the microphone once more. Peter sighs, and pushes his elbows down into the table so he can rest his chin on top of his hands. “Dude, do you even blink?”

“Yes.” Jim tells him, and starts the recording.

Peter hums, tapping his fingers on his cheeks,“You know what, Jimmy? You’re very, very boring. And, honestly, kind of a jerk.” Peter says, “I have given you so many zingers and you haven’t picked up a single one. Where’s your comebacks, huh? You ever heard of something called comedic timing? You’re squandering it.”

Peter lifts his head up and leans back in his chair, pushing his legs out in front of him. His hands are stuck out in front but that doesn’t mean he can’t try to find some semblance of relaxation, “ Aren't you going to ask me something? Or are you going to keep giving me one-worders? What do you want to know? My name is Peter, my favorite food is pad thai noodles, my favorite animal is the orchid spider, and I’m a Leo. Anything else?” Jim perks an eyebrow. “Gosh, you are being such a scorpio right now. I think. They’re the mean ones, right?”

“It sounds like you should know.” 

“I don’t know. Astrology is kinda stupid. Did you know there’s actually like twenty signs or something? Moon, mars, mercury, and all that, and then they ran out of planets and called one of them rising. It’s like- like, you can be several signs at once, doesn’t that defeat the purpose? It’s way too much to keep track of. Like, being a leo was complicated enough and now I’m a pisces and a virgo, too? It’s ridiculous.”

Jim sighs. Peter flashes him a cheeky smile, even if he, himself, feels that it rings false. “Listen. You’re barely talking, and I will gladly, readily talk for two people.” Peter pauses, but only for a moment, “You know what I would die for, right now? A bagel. I would die for a good, fresh, bagel. A sesame seed bagel, dude. I’d put butter and powdered sugar on it. My heart would stop. Straight up." Peter sighs wistfully, "Am I drooling? I feel like I'm drooling."

"I can’t get you a fresh bagel,” Jim says, his face stays neutral. “But I can get you off a prison cot, if you stop rambling and tell me who you actually are.”

“I already told you. My name is Peter.”

Jim doesn’t react, but prods with his words, instead. “You keep saying that. You got a last name, Peter?”

Peter deliberates. If he gives the man his last name, it was possible that he could find out Peter didn’t exist. He didn’t know SHIELD’s ability, in the 1960s, to gauge the truthfulness of his claims. Peter must take too long to answer because he hears Jim ask again, more firmly.

“Parker.” Peter blurts, and looks down at the table. “I’m Peter Parker.”

“Peter. Parker.” Jim repeats. “You don’t seem so sure about that.”

“I mean that’s what it is. My middle name is Benjamin. And, to be fair, it’s not like you guys have introduced yourselves either.”

“And you’re supposed to be how old?” Jim asks.

“I’m about seventy-six in dog years.” Peter offers. “Or about eight years old on Mars.”

Jim, to his credit, is doing a very professional, clean job of showing absolutely zero emotion whatsofuckingever.“In human years, please.”

“Fifteen.” Peter huffs. “I turn sixteen in- hold on.” Peter pauses, “What month is it?”

Jim leans forward slightly, but keeps his hands folded on the top of the table. “Why don’t you know?”

“Well, I remember it being April- and maybe that’s true, but I’d argue that waking up in the middle of the arctic kind of makes me wonder if it’s actually April or not, you know?.”

“It’s November.” Jim tells him.

“Huh. Uh, what day?” Peter asks.

Jim tsks. “It’s the fifteenth. Don’t ask me any more questions, you’re the one being interrogated.”

“I guess I turn sixteen… uh, hold on.” Peter mumbles to himself, checking the math over in his head, before answering “ninety-seven days ago. Happy Birthday to me, I guess.”

He wished he didn’t feel like such an open book right now. Flipped open, scrutinized, and annotated. He looks towards the tape recorder. It’s a big, clunky machine that would’ve been amazingly streamlined for the time. There’s a mess of buttons on Jim’s side, and two metal wheels facing Peter. Tape curls around them in a long, winding line. 

Peter sighs, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you still haven’t told me who you are. I know it’s not like I have any options, so you have no reason to tell me anything but it sure would be nice. And, hey why are you guys in the middle of the arctic in November, anyways? It’s cold as balls out here.” Peter says. “Man, why couldn’t I wake up in the Bahamas? Key West? I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand… ”

“You’re not asking the questions.” Jim says.

“Well I can try.” Peter retorts. “You don’t have to answer them. I mean, just go ahead and kill a poor child’s curiosity, that’s on your conscience, not mine.”

“It wouldn’t even register on my conscience.” Jim says. “And, honestly, I can’t believe you’re still touting around this story that you just woke up. If you keep joking around, I will get mean.”

Peter sputters. “Look. I’m telling you the truth.”

“I-” Jim starts, but Peter keeps talking.

“I know that it’s hard to believe.” Peter interrupts. “Look, I hardly believe it. And I get it- if I were in your shoes I’d be rolling my eyes too. But, please, I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent serious. I woke up and I was out in the snow. I was walking and I heard your ship’s horn so I came towards it. That’s how I found you. That’s it.”

“And you remember nothing?”

Peter shakes his head, “I tried to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” Peter clenches his hands and unclenches them, “I tried to remember. Of course I tried to think about how I ended up there. But I… you know… I couldn’t remember anything.” 

A moment passes, Jim closes his notebook and clicks his pen. "I gave you the first chance," Jim stands up, his voice almost sounds regretful, "Remember that." 

Jim turns towards the one-way mirror. Peter can see the concealed anger on his face. “Get Dr. Schulz in here,” Jim says. Peter makes a confused noise and Jim’s angry face turns onto him for a moment. “Just know this, kid,” Jim’s voice is low, threatening and gruff, “I don’t have the time for bullshit- and if you don't start talking, it will get worse for you. If you're a victim, the sooner you start talking the sooner we can treat you like one.” 

Peter sputters, slamming a hand on the table. “I’m telling the truth!”

Jim doesn’t reply. The door slams shut behind him and Peter is left alone. 

Maybe Jim had been planning from the beginning to shift command, he certainly seemed quick to escalate to it- Peter guessed that it was supposed to scare him, that Jim wasn’t playing any games. And whoever this new guy was he’d be scarier.

It’s working, Peter is nervous. But, it’s not like Peter has the ability to even change his answers- he was mostly telling the truth, and when he isn’t, it’s only so they don’t send him to a mental hospital. They wouldn’t believe him even if he said it, probably, I’m from the future, I was hanging out in space with some aliens and a wizard and we were fighting this super evil alien and then like everyone died. Technically, I should be wiped from existence right now. Just a smattering of dust on Mr. Stark’s hands, but, you know, Tony Stark’s hands.

He lets his head fall into the table. “Jimbob left the recorder on,” he remarks to himself, dryly, “Do you want me to talk about my sinister plans while you’re out of the room, huh?”

He turns towards the two way glass, cheek still mushed into the cold metal table. “I guess you can all see I’m just the epitome of all evil and bad in this world. I nearly killed myself in the cold just to… to…” Peter tries to think of something he could do, something bad, “I don’t know, steal all your money?”

He waits for longer than he should, goes between a few phases of boredom before Jim returns. He jangles his cuffs in an attempt to create a rhythm, but is not successful in making anything other than discordant noise, and when this doesn’t work he closes his eyes and watches the colors shift behind them. He listens to the sounds of the boat, the cracking ot the ice, footsteps, and the men have stopped playing poker- now they’ve mellowed and gone their separate ways. 

When Jim comes back, having stretched his return out long enough that Peter's anxiety had doubled, Peter doesn’t lift his head until the man tells him to. A man accompanies him, presumably the Dr. Schulz that Jim had mentioned.

He’d be average looking, if not for his face being too small for his head. “This is the boy?” He asks Jim, in a heavy German accent, “He is small.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too, buddy.”

“You are quite the thing, young man.” Dr. Schulz says, walking forward. He has a bag on his shoulder, clinking as he walks, “You’re what everyone is talking about. I don’t think Howard Stark has shut up since we found you.”

His spider sense tingles at the back of his neck and, against his will, he feels his body go alert. His shoulders rise, his fists clench, and the hairs on his arms stand up. “So you’re telling me I’m a celebrity.”

Peter can tell he knows. Maybe the man doesn’t know why Peter is so on edge, but the man’s eyes seem to light up when he sees Peter’s fear.

“I’m telling you,” Dr. Schulz slides his bag off of his shoulder and rests it on the table, “That you are annoying.”

“What’s new?” Peter jokes.

“Do you know who I am?” Dr. Schulz circles the table, fixing his beady eyes towards Peter as he does so, until he has settled behind Peter’s chair. 

“No, and we should keep it that way. You’re not really my type.”

Peter can feel the man’s oppressive presence behind him, and it multiplies when hands clamp down on the back of the chair, on either side of his head. “It’s Peter, right?” Peter hates himself when he nods. “You do not need to be scared, Peter. I am a nice man, I will not be mean unless you do not answer my questions. Do you understand, Peter?”

Peter breathes in. Breathes out. He looks towards Jim, who shakes his head and turns away. “Actually, no. You think you can repeat that?”

“No. You seem like a smart boy. You will figure it out.”

One of the man’s hands departs from the back of the chair and moves to ruffle Peter’s hair in an awkwardly intimate gesture. Without thinking, Peter shakes his head to dislodge the hand. Dr. Schulz chuckles.

“I am Dr. Schulz, Peter, it is nice to meet you,” Dr. Schulz leaves now, and Peter sees him return to his line of sight in his peripheral, circling around the other side of the table, now. 

Jim leaves the room, and the sound of the door shutting leaves a pit in Peter’s stomach, like an elevator’s wires snapping and its occupants plummeting to their death.

“I can’t say I agree,” Peter says. 

Peter notices now that the bag on the table is actually a tool roll, when Dr. Schulz unclasps it and carefully rolls it out so Peter can see each blade and prong and spike stuffed inside its own little pocket, “Do not worry, Peter, I will not use these. Not unless you stretch this out long enough to warrant them. All I want is the truth, Peter.”

The roll is organized, and clean. Peter can tell that Schulz takes good care of his tools. 

“Well you’re going to be disappointed,” Peter closes his eyes, watches the colors dance, opens them. Breathes in, breathes out. “Because I already told you the truth.”

Unlike Jim, Dr. Schulz’s eyes are not cast downwards, but his face is boldly tilted up towards the fluorescent lightning, and the harsh light shines on him like a flashlight beam illuminating a giddy kid telling a horror story. 

“This will go quickly then,” Dr. Schulz says, “Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I know this chapter is horrendous but I am sick of writer's block, and after this was finished I've already written 2000 words for the 4th chapter so just pushing through this was definitely the way to go.


	4. Everybody hates Schulz

When Jarvis returns later that day with more food, and a folding chair tucked up underneath his arm, Peter has curled into himself on the mattress. 

The doctor, not Dr. Schulz, but the one who told Jim, out of earshot where he thought Peter couldn’t hear, “I can’t say I’m particularly happy that my patient is now in such a condition”, has already checked him over and made sure none of his injuries were too severe, cleaned and bandaged up Peter’s hands.

“I am sorry for their behavior,” Jarvis tells him.

“It’s fine,” Peter bites out, “I’m fine. Except, I’m still here. All you found out was I was telling the truth, right? So why am I still in this cell?”

“The risk in freeing you is too great.” Jarvis says, “We will release you to your family when we have come back to the states. I can make your stay here more comfortable until then, but I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

Peter rolls over, eyeing the newest tray in Jarvis’ hand. Whatever is on it smells nice, Peter sniffs the air, “mushrooms?” Peter asks.

Jarvis nods, “Yes. It is chicken a la king, it is what all of the men had for lunch today. Mushrooms freeze surprisingly well. I hope you like them.”

He didn’t. He was a picky eater, normally limited to chicken noodle soup, fish sticks, various forms of pizza and sweets, but all he does is smile and say, “Does it matter? I’m hungry enough to eat the floor.”

The small slot slides open and Peter collects the tray the same way he did before, sitting criss cross applesauce in front of the door. He slides off the napkin on top to reveal a large plate of creamy pasta and a glass of water like before. Peter unravels the silverware, noting that he was given metal utensils again, and digs in. 

He had almost expected that when Jarvis came back, tray in hand, that he’d have lost all of his appetite. But, with food presented to him, his empty stomach took over his brain, ignored the pain in his arms, and had him devouring the meal.

“It seems I might have to get you seconds,” Jarvis jokes.

Peter swallows the bite in his mouth without chewing, and has to cough when it lodges itself in his throat. “Probably,” He admits, blushing.

Jarvis unfolds the chair he’d carried in and settles into it in a regal pose, hands folded into his lap. “No need to be embarrassed about that. Hunger is a good thing, it means that you still have your appetite. Which I am glad to see, after what has happened to you. Losing your appetite is very dangerous.”

Peter digs his fork into the pasta and looks up. “I can always eat. Fast metabolism.”

“I am glad. I was scared for you today. What happened to you may have a reason, but it is inexcusable, I do not care if you are telling the truth or not, you are a child and they sent in that terrible man-” Jarvis’ voice rises and he cuts himself off, as if noticing what he’d been saying. “I heard you say you like bagels, Peter. I do too.”

Peter blinks at the change in topic. Rubs one hand over the other bandaged hand, and watches as Jarvis makes a pained expression when he sees it. “Hey don’t worry about it, I’ve had worse. And bagels, yeah, I’m a big fan.” Peter tells him, “There’s this great Jewish bakery near my apartment. They make the best food. I swear, their babka is to die for. My aunt has tried to make it before, but nothing has ever come close to the kind they make.”

“My wife makes a delicious babka,” Jarvis brings up his left hand and Peter looks as his silver wedding band shines, “Perhaps she could give them a run for their money.”

Peter throws up his hands in animated disagreement, “No way! No offense or anything, but the Rose’s bakery reigns supreme in my book.”

“Are you Jewish?” Jarvis asks, bluntly, he is looking at Peter but suddenly the boy gets an impression that the man is thinking of someone else while he does so, “Or are you just a fan of the food?”

Peter shrugs, “I’m Jewish. I don’t practice or anything though, my mother was the only Jewish one in my family and she had never actively practiced.”

Jarvis seems to pick up on the subtext- that his mother, whatever the situation was, wasn’t around- and, kudos to him, doesn’t utilize the opportunity to pry. “My wife is Jewish. She moved to New York, after the war, that is where I met her, I’d just moved from London, myself. The two of us were about your age when we met. Her family wasn’t actively practicing either, and she was still… “ Jarvis trails off. When he continues it is with a steadfast tone that commands Peter listen, “I was thinking I might tell you a story, Peter, but I do not think I will. I think I will tell you, directly, what I am trying to say because you deserve that. I am sorry that they would put you in a room with that detestable man. You seem like you are a very strong boy, but it is obvious enough that something has been done to you, even if just by your circumstances of being here, and what they did to you today has only added to that. My deepest apologies, though I know they are not worth much, go out to you. I will be getting you that bed, even if I have to argue for it, and, hopefully, something to do.”

Peter touches the bandages again, purposefully this time, to show Jarvis they don’t hurt very much, “I’m fine, you know,” he says, “That guy was scary but, whatever. I don’t let myself scared by bullies. And that’s all he was, you know, he was kind of just a pathetic little bully.”

Peter finishes his plate, and drops the fork onto it. “You said I could have seconds, right?” He asks. Jarvis’ eyes are wide, and he hesitates a moment before standing, taken aback by Peter’s words for some reason. He gathers Peter’s tray silently.

“And I’ll take you up on that offer of something to do!” Peter calls behind him, after Jarvis departs with a soft of course,“If you have any Sudoku I’d really appreciate it!”

-

“Damn that was quick,” Howard Stark doubles back with how fast Jarvis returns to the kitchen with an empty plate, a troubled look on his face. The man pats his butler on the back as he refills the bowl. You look upset, that kid givin’ you grief?”

Jarvis shakes his head. “No. He has only been kind.”

Howard has been thinking about that kid all week. From the moment he’d heard that voice calling out to him, barely carried to him on the wind. It didn’t make sense. They were all pretty sure the kid was a communist spy- either highly fortunate or unfortunate- but Dr. Schulz himself had said, earlier, in his stupid accent “he is hiding something, but that should be expected in these circumstances. He is not lying. Whoever he is, he is a teenager, he is from New York, and he is named Peter Benjamin Parker.”

Queens, Howard thought, why Queens? It didn’t make any sense. 

“Jim said the kid’s a smartass.” Howard says, “Oh man, I want to meet him so bad.”

“There’s nothing stopping you,” Jarvis sets the dish back on the tray, and goes to refill the glass of water that accompanied it. “I think if you met him you would agree with me that he absolutely deserves a real bed, at the very least.”

“Jim is stopping me,” Howard groans, “And normally I’d ignore him, but he’s watchin’ me like a damn hawk.”

Jarvis gives a good-natured chuckle. “Really. You’d like to meet him- he’s quite interesting. About five minutes ago he called Schulz a, and I quote, pathetic little bully.”

Howard snickers at first, but quickly breaks into a full-on laugh. “Awfully tame insult for the man who tore his fingernails off.” Howard wipes at his face, and then realizes his mistake. It’s too late, Jarvis’ face has twisted into rage. 

“You were there, weren’t you?” Jarvis asks, “And you did not stop that from happening?”

Howard ducks his head away from Jarvis’ piercing gaze, “We needed to make sure he was telling the truth Jarvis- no, don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. If he’s dangerous he doesn’t just put us in danger. As far as I’m concerned, fingernails are a small price to pay to make sure the world is safe.”

“It was barbaric.” Jarvis' words dripped with a palpable anger, “He is a bully and you all gave him a perfect victim who couldn’t protect himself.” Jarvis turns away, pulling the tray close to his chest. “And for the record, bully is only a childish word on the surface, Mr. Stark.”

Howard sighs. “Jarvis-”

“I am not in the mood to have this conversation, Mr. Stark. I will let this wrong abide in time, because I understand why you felt the need to do this- given the circumstances- but the bandages on those boy’s hands are partially on you, and I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”

Howard stubbornly turns away. No, Howard Stark doesn’t do sheepish, or apologetic, or anything of the sort, it isn’t in his nature. 

“Fine,” Stark says, “As long as you know I did it for a good reason.”

“I will say you did it for a reason, Mr. Stark. Please, do not try to pry on this matter. I would like to keep our relationship posed on mutual respect, and not compromise that, sir.” Jarvis stops on his way out of the room to place a couple books on the corner of the tray, along with a pencil. One book looks like it’s crosswords, and the other is a detective novel.

“You’re too nice, Jarvis.” Howard scoffs. 

“Tell me something I do not know, sir,” Jarvis even carries trays with a certain amount of elegance, like a fancy waiter, one open palm on the bottom balancing the entire thing. “Oh sir, before I leave, I need to ask you something. Have you ever heard of Sudoku?”

Howard shakes his head no, and Jarvis’ waves off his next few questions with the excuse that they must be too old to be familiar with it- whatever it is. It sounded like a different language.

Sudoku. Must be something popular with the kids, then. If Jarvis was asking about it, it must be something the Queens boy had said. The mystery boy. Peter Benjamin Parker.

The whole thing seemed too weird to be true, not many people had a name so genuinely American, and for them to wake up, with amnesia in the middle of the arctic, right next to a SHIELD vessel? Something shady was going on, but Howard couldn’t decipher it. If Schulz was right, the kid was telling the truth as far as his identity went, and his promise of friendliness. 

Peter Benjamin Parker. Most people had names touched by other nationalities, but that kid’s name was blisteringly American. 

Steve Rogers had the same effect. It too was a stubbornly American name.

Yeah, that was a line of thought going nowhere, even if it was fun to entertain. Howard knew full well that bully was a better insult than it seemed, after all, Steve Rogers loved to use it. 

Howard Stark left the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of scotch and a glass off the bar with a wink towards the soldier who’d taken up bartending that night, and headed down towards his laboratory.

He hoped Schulz wasn’t there. That guy was, in kind terms, about as cuddly and sweet as a tarantula. Maybe an eel. A poison dart frog. 

The only reason Schulz was even on board was because he was useful, as far as the tesseract went, because he’d worked with Zola and Zola himself wasn’t in good enough health to accompany them.

Operation Paperclip, the gift that kept on giving.

Not.

Really, he hoped he didn’t see Schulz for at least a day or two. Howard Stark wasn’t really bothered by the fact, but even he didn’t exactly like knowing that the man had ripped off that kid’s fingernails.

Or maybe that was just an excuse. In plain terms, Schulz was obnoxious and he knew the man found him annoying, too. It was a mutual hatred and it made things tense and awkward whenever they were together.

It made going to his lab a lot less fun, with the threat of a possible meeting hung over his head. And, damn it, he was proud of his lab, he wanted to spend all night in there. The biometrics scanning lock, that was a piece of art, the tesseract in its containment unit, and, of course, his babies. Betsy-Anne, the pistol, and Jean the missile launching system. His beautiful, blue-printed children.

He took a swig from the bottle of scotch and fished his key out from where he’d stuffed it tight in a zipped jacket pocket. 

No Schulz in sight so far. He opened and closed the first door with some relief as he saw through the second door no sign of the other man.

The next door took his fingerprints and slid open. It was new technology, only available to SHIELD so far, but it worked like a charm. 

The tesseract lit up the room in a vibrant blue glow even caged in a steel containment unit. 

Howard was glad they’d found it, but it was a bittersweet victory, as they’d not found the man who was meant to come with it. The tesseract was their one guide to Steve Rogers, the beacon of energy that led them towards this place- and now that it was found by itself… they had no leads.

The worst part, probably, would be telling Peggy. She’d take it in stride, of course, as she always did. Howard knew she had moved on, she wasn’t a woman that lingered, but it would still hurt to tell her that there, really, was no more true hope left for Rogers surfacing from the ice. It had always been a wild goose chase. 

They only had one more week before he’d have to tell her, too. 

He wondered what Peggy would think of Peter Benjamin Parker. When he had just barely gotten a signal sent out to base, the woman had responded with some (choppy) bewilderment. _“D-n’t le- guard- own._ ”

Howard looked towards the picture on his desk, Peggy, in her uniform, arm thrown over his shoulder. That was the day they’d started SHIELD, and they had only this photograph to show for it. “I won’t,” he said to the empty room. 

There was a flash.

Howard blinked. 

Another flash of light lit up the room, it came from behind, bright green and sudden. Howard turned around, hand immediately on his hip where his gun was pressed up against is hip. The tesseract sat innocently, unchanged in it’s crate, still softly emanating a blue glow. He scanned the room, but nothing else was out of the ordinary either. 

He pulled his pistol free and aimed it out towards the empty room. He moved towards the tesseract, turning as he did so to make a full sweep over the room. Not a pen was out of place, not a piece of paper had moved. 

Next to the tesseract, he checked on it. It was completely locked, not even touched. He kept his gun out but relaxed, relief washing over him. 

“I must be getting old, huh?” He asked himself, his free hand running through his hair, mussing it from it’s perfectly gelled state. “Sudoku,” he mutters under his breath, “Jesus, I need a drink.”

Or several.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not want yall to think he was like "he likes bagels! He's Jewish!" But Jarvis was probably more so? And has been? Projecting stuff onto Peter a little bit based on what he saw after the war-
> 
> Also, I couldn't find a single villain that fit the requirements of what I needed for this fic so I made my own! Then made him rip Peter's fingernails off. Because. Yeah. SHIELD is not Peter's ally.
> 
> P.S. can anyone guess what that green light was?


End file.
